


The Lady Professor and The Writer: Or, Still Working Hard

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [28]
Category: Californication, The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Hank is away for two weeks on a book tour, missing Stella





	The Lady Professor and The Writer: Or, Still Working Hard

Hank was never very fond of book tours, less so as time passed.  It was the travel, mostly, not the signings or readings.  Those could still be fun.  But, the older he got, the more of a homebody he became.  Living out of hotels for weeks at a time could be fun for a few days, but not for weeks.  Being away from his things, away from his routine, away from Stella, held no appeal.

 

He fought with Charlie about it, but in the end, agreed to a two week tour around the states, hitting the major cities he was the most popular in.  LA, of course, New York, of course, Chicago, Atlanta, Phoenix, San Francisco, Denver, Seattle, Boston, Baltimore, St. Louis, Providence, and oddly enough, Omaha.  Not in that order.  One night in each city.  He would be on a plane every day for thirteen days.  

 

He finished the first week on the west coast and then began heading east.  He was mostly looking forward to the last three days on the journey because it would require the least travel time and energy.  Boston to Providence to New York.  He would spend an extra day in New York to see Becca, and then he would fly home.

 

By the time he made it to Boston and into the home stretch, he was so anxious to be finished, the Q&As and the signings were becoming one giant blur.  Then again, they were all the same, just the faces changed.  He could handle one in his sleep at this point, and it was a good thing too, because he felt like he was sleepwalking through it.  When he got home he was going to have to ask Charlie to review the offers again on his last book for film rights.  If any of them were decent enough, it could buy him some rest and relaxation for awhile.

 

They had him signing at the Harvard Bookstore, which he liked, because it felt more like a real bookstore and less cookie cutter than a chain store.  Still, his mind was elsewhere for most of the night.  He answered questions about the new book, about his old books, about the difference between writing novels and writing for television, and that cliche chestnut ‘do you have any advice for an aspiring writer?’ question that every person asked as though they were the first person to ever think of it.  He used to answer with complete and unadulterated sarcasm, but now he liked to be a little more sincere, even if it was sounding rote at this point.

 

“Everyone’s journey is different,” he said.  “No, I don’t have any advice for an aspiring writer other than to say, like any other calling in life, do it if you must.  I don’t care if you’re a bricklayer or a ballerina, the path you take is going to be yours alone, not anyone else’s.  Maybe you just need to eat a sandwich every day to keep you going, so eat a sandwich every day.  Maybe music inspires you, so turn your radio on.  Maybe you like to sit in a hot bath until your skin turns soft and pruny and somehow that opens you up to what you want to write.  I can’t tell anyone how to get from A to Z, I can only tell you to do it if you must.”

 

The moderator felt that was a good time to end the Q&A and then he was moved to a little table for signing.  Truthfully, he was not paying very much attention to the crowd.  He took the book passed to him, copied the name that was stuck to the title page with a sticky note, and signed his name before glancing up for a moment’s eye contact.  Some of the people in line, mostly young men who were probably in their first year of college, wanted to tell him what an inspiration he was and how they wanted to be just like him.  God help them.

 

His hand was cramping, but the line was dwindling.  He was passed a book with a blank sticky note and he paused to flex his hand.

 

“Who should I make it out to?” he asked.

 

“Stella.”

 

Hank looked up.  His face split into a grin and he went to push himself up from his chair.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moody,” she said, extending her hand.  “I’m a big fan.”

 

“Oh, really?” he said, fitting his hand into hers and relaxing back into the chair to play along.  He held her hand softly, but firmly, making it clear he wasn’t going to let go.  “That accent of yours,” he said.  “Tell me, did you come from all the way across the pond just to come to my signing.”

 

“I was simply fortunate enough to be in the neighborhood.”  She slipped her hand free and brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

 

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by.  Always nice to meet a big fan.  Especially one as beautiful and intelligent as yourself.”

 

“How would you know I’m intelligent?”

 

“I don’t know, call me psychic, but perhaps you might give me an opportunity to find out.”

 

“Perhaps I might.  Could I buy you a drink, Mr. Moody?”

 

“Please, call me Hank.”  He glanced over at the dwindling line a few feet away.  “Looks like things are wrapping up here.  If you don’t mind waiting.”

 

“I can wait.”  She slid the book out from under his hands and tucked it under her arm.

 

“Hey, I didn’t sign it.”

 

“You can sign it later.”

 

Only six people remained in line.  He breezed through them and then posed for the requisite photos with the store staff and signed some extra copies for display.  It took maybe ten minutes, tops, but it felt like an eternity.  The only thing he needed to do was shake the publicist the publisher had handling him.  Surprisingly, it only took a simple request for the kid to take the night off.  Back in the old days, they used to keep him on a tighter leash.

 

Hank caught up with Stella between the history and biography shelves.  He leaned against one of the stacks with his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from touching her.  He’d already risked embarrassment by taking her hand at the signing table.  It’d been nearly two weeks since he’d touched her, after all.

 

Now, here she was in front of him, in all her casual Stella glory.  Casual for her, at least, which meant that her shoes were open-toed, her dark dress pants a little baggier, the white shirt under her cardigan sweater was form-fitting and had spaghetti straps.  And yet she still managed to look a step above business casual. 

 

“How’s my biggest fan in Boston this evening?” he asked.

 

“I never said biggest fan,” she replied, browsing the back cover of a thick, red book.

 

“No one else asked to buy me a drink, so you win by default.”

 

“Who was I in competition with?”

 

“Maybe the kid who said he’d give up his left nut to write a book like South of Heaven or the woman who named her dog after me.”

 

Stella put the red book in her hand back on the shelf.  “Have you a place in mind to grab a drink?” she asked.

 

“I hear there’s some bar around here where everybody knows your name.”

 

“I’d rather have you all to myself.”

 

“Well, they’ve put me up in some chain downtown.  We could go there or-”

 

“Some place quiet.”

 

“Why don’t we get a cab and figure it out on the way?”

 

Hank was able to flag down a taxi outside of the bookstore and he told the driver to take them to a quiet bar downtown.  He slumped close to her in the back seat, turning his head towards her shoulder to smell her perfume.  He could’ve ended the little charade at any time and touched her knee or put his arm around her or just kissed her, but delaying the gratification was part of the fun.

 

The driver dropped them at a place called City Bar, which was small and dark.  It was moderately crowded with what looked like small groups of people as opposed to couples.  He wished the two-seater by the fireplace had been open, but it was occupied.  They took a pair of seats at the corner of the bar and Hank signaled the bartender. 

 

The bartender nodded as he finished up a drink for another patron a few seats away.  He was formally attired in a crisp white button-down, black vest, black pants and black apron tied neatly around his waist.  He had tanned skin and a dark, five o’clock shadow.  He looked young, but already had a receding hairline and what remained was closely shaved.  He offered a tight-lipped, courteous smile as he approached.  A gold nametag pinned to his vest was stamped with MIGUEL.

 

“For the lady?” Miguel asked, making a very slight bow towards Stella.

 

“Dry martini,” Stella answered.

 

“Whiskey neat,” Hank added.

 

Miguel dropped his head in a nod and then backed away to fix their drinks.

 

“You didn’t specify if you wanted that martini shaken or stirred,” Hank said.

 

“No one likes a shaken martini,” she answered.  “Bruises the gin.”

 

“You might have to argue about that with the esteemed Mr. Bond.”

 

“It would be more apropos to have the argument with Mr. Fleming.”

 

“Ohhhhh, always blame the writer.”

 

“Who better?”

 

“Sean Connery for being so devastatingly handsome, so suave, so sophisticated, so fuckable; the man every woman wanted and every man wanted to be.”

 

“I suppose that’s fair.”

 

“Then again, speaking as a writer, if I came up with a line so highly memorable, I’m pretty sure I’d want credit.”

 

“For such a ghastly blunder?”

 

“Now I’m firmly back in the Connery camp.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Hearing you say ‘ghastly blunder’ like that really is proof that everything sounds sexier with an English accent.”

 

“Connery is Scottish.”

 

“See, even when you’re arguing with me, it’s still sexy.”

 

Stella smiled a little and glanced over as Miguel approached with their drinks.  She pulled her wallet out of her bag and plucked her credit card out, holding it out to the young man between two fingers as he set their glasses down.

 

“Would you like me to start a tab?” Miguel asked.

 

“Please,” Stella answered.

 

“Well, as my recently crowned biggest fan,” Hank said once the bartender walked away, “I’m sure you know all about me.  So, what about you?  What do you do back in jolly old England?”

 

Stella dropped her eyes and gazed at her martini glass, running her finger along the rim.  “I...teach,” she said, after a long pause.

 

Hank froze for a moment with his whiskey held up to his lips.  He smiled into his glass and then put it back down on the bar.  “You teach?” he asked.  “Let me guess, Oxford?”

 

“Cambridge.”

 

“Ah, my next guess.”  

 

Hank took another drink, unable to hide the delight and amusement in his voice.  Stella didn’t normally play like this, creating a character for herself instead of just being herself.  It was exciting.  When she did finally glance up at him, it was fleeting, her eyes moving quickly back to her glass as she lifted her martini to her lips.

 

“What do you teach?” Hank asked.

 

“Psychology,” she answered, after a brief hesitation.

 

“Psychology?  Interesting.  Any particular kind of psychology, Professor Stella?”

 

“Criminal psychology.”

 

“Even more interesting.  Are you here in Boston to solve a crime?”

 

“A lecture exchange, actually.”

 

“I love it.”  He smiled and nodded.  “What’s the title of your lecture?”

 

“Profiling is Not What it Looks Like on Television.”

 

Hank laughed.  “Sounds like another dig at writers.”

 

“Not at all.  Accuracy isn’t necessarily entertaining.”

 

“School me on something I wouldn’t otherwise know, Lady Professor.”

 

“Well, it isn’t cut and dry.  Profiles are educated guesses based on facts at hand and the application of theoretical reasoning.”

 

“Hit me with one of the theories.”

 

“You’d be bored out of your skull.”

 

“Impossible.”  Hank shook his head and leaned closer to her against the bar.  “Everything out of your mouth is fascinating.”

 

“There’s the cognitive theory, which focuses on how people process and react to the world around them,” she said, flexing her foot so that her toes moved up the inside of his pants leg.

 

“Uh huh.”  Hank nodded and reached down with loosely dangling fingers close enough to her ankle so he could wrap his hand around it just beneath her pants.  “Go on.”

 

“It’s a theory that assumes criminals have a stunted moral development due to motivations of ego and their inability to empathize with other people.”

 

“Mmhm…”  Hank kept one hand on Stella’s ankle and his eyes locked with hers as he took a drink. 

 

“Not to be confused with a diminished mental capacity,” she continued.  “But, a fundamental lack of the necessary skills to analyze social situations.”

 

“I think you owe me an apology,” Hank said, moving his hand up to the back of her calf and back to her ankle.

 

“Are we back to my slightly slanderous accusations against writers?”

 

“No, you should apologize for questioning my ability to recognize your intelligence.”

 

“It was speculatory at best.  You had nothing to base that on.”

 

“So?  I hypothesized correctly.”

 

Stella shrugged and sipped her martini.  “I'd keep the congratulatory celebration short, you were wrong on another account.”

 

“What was I wrong about?”

 

“I know nothing about you.”

 

“Nothing at all?  I thought you were my biggest fan!”

 

“Certainly, I've read your novels.  Should I assume the author is his characters?”

 

“Touché.”  Hank tipped his head and lifted his glass to her before downing the rest of his whiskey.  He flipped the empty glass over and slid it across the bar.  Miguel appeared a heartbeat later and swiped the empty glass away while wiping the bar with a white dishrag.

 

“Another, Sir?” Miguel asked.

 

“Yes,” Hank answered.

 

“Another for me as well,” Stella added, still sipping her drink, but nearly finished.

 

“Coming up.”  Miguel nodded and disappeared to refresh their drinks.

 

“What do you want to know?” Hank asked.

 

“Anything that might interest me,” Stella answered.

 

“Well, you might be interested to know that I also live in London.”

 

“Why not Paris?  Or Spain?  Isn't that where all the other ex-pat writers flee?”

 

“I thought we just discussed this, I find the British accent extremely sexy.”

 

“Don't be glib.”

 

“I did it for a woman, of course.”

 

With one brow raised slightly, Stella downed the remainder of her martini and then plucked the stick of olives out of the glass.  “You have my condolences that it didn’t work out” she said, just before taking a light grip on one of the olives and sliding it off the stick into her mouth.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“The familiarities you've been taking with my ankle for the last five minutes.”  She sucked the alcohol out of the olive and took a bite.  

 

Hank grinned and moved his hand up her calf again.  “She knows how stimulating I find intelligent conversation to be.”

 

“What’s that got to do with my ankle?”

 

Miguel interrupted their conversation with fresh drinks.  He took Stella's empty glass and moved away.  Hank finally took his hand off Stella's ankle and then leaned back in his seat.  Stella, having finished the second olive, dropped the toothpick into the bar and pulled her new martini glass closer.  

 

“We’ve been together for nearly four years,” Hank said.

 

“Quite awhile,” Stella answered.

 

“Doesn’t feel like it.  There are times it feels like the first time I laid eyes on her all over again.”

 

Stella took interest in her martini glass again and then in their surroundings.  Hank sipped at his whiskey and then set it down on the bar and toyed with the glass, sliding it between his hands, back and forth.

 

“I’ve been thinking about asking her for something more permanent,” Hank said.  “But, I don’t really know how she’d feel about that.”

 

Stella set her martini glass down and shifted in her seat.  “What would your idea of something more permanent look like?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know.  Marriage would obviously be the logical answer, but I can only speak for myself when I say it’s a concept that seems to give me a rash whenever I think about it.  And not because I’m afraid of commitment, but because it seems like such an antiquated system.”

 

“I can agree with that.”

 

“But, on the other hand, there’s a part of me that wants to hold that title.  I want to put a ring on her finger and know that whoever she’s with when she’s not with me knows that she has someone to come home to.  I want to hear her introduce me as her husband when she takes me to work functions, because I like the sound of it and it means something to other people.  And maybe that’s a stupid fucking reason for wanting it, but it’s such an easier way to say ‘I’m in love, I’m committed, I’m happy’ with just one little word.  Why can’t we just do that and fuck the paperwork and ceremony?”

 

“You want to make it real with rings and titles and fuck the contract?”

 

“I’m saying it already  _ is _ real for me, but without something concrete to back it up, I don’t think it will ever be real for anyone else.”

 

Stella turned her head away and brought the martini glass to her lips.  She took a long drink and stayed silent.  Hank sighed a little and threw the rest of his whiskey back.  Miguel, as though he had empty glass spideysenses, started for their end of the bar, but Hank shook his head and lifted his hand to wave the bartender away.

 

“Guess you’re not my biggest fan anymore, are you?” Hank asked.

 

“You’re not wrong,” Stella answered.

 

Hank grimaced, annoyed with himself for darkening the mood on their fun little game.  He wasn’t expecting to see her in Boston, of course, and all he’d wanted for the last two weeks was to see her.  He’d told her as much every night on the phone when they spoke, and now he’d ruined it.

 

“Sorry,” Stella said, putting her glass down and lightly touching Hank on the knee.  “You’re not wrong about what you said before, about it being real for anyone else.  I simply don’t know why anyone else matters.”

 

“I don’t know either, but sometimes they do.”

 

“You’ve finished your drink.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Stella took another sip of her martini and then signaled to Miguel.  He was there in an instant and she pushed her nearly empty glass towards him as he approached.

 

“Another?” Miguel asked.

 

“Could you close our tab, please?” Stella asked.

 

“Certainly.”

 

It only took a few moments for Miguel to run Stella’s credit card and bring her the receipts fastened to a little black tray.  She signed them quickly and then turned the tray over to Miguel and accepted her card in return.

 

“Thank you,” Stella said.  “My husband and I have been doing some traveling and are eager to return to our hotel.”

 

Hank couldn’t keep the grin off his face and when he took a breath, his chest expanded in a peacocking display of pride.  He held his hand out to Stella to help her slip free of the bar chair and then put his arm around her waist as they walked out.  He had to flag down another cab to take them over to the hotel and this time, he didn’t stop himself from pressing his face to her neck or rubbing the inside of her knee in the back seat.

 

Eager as he’d been all night to have her alone, once they were in his room, all he wanted to do was slowly savor every inch of her.  For once, she didn’t seem to be in a hurry either.  They were both slow to undress, content to kiss and be kissed, to roll across the bed in sudden plays for dominance, to hover and nip and slide under shirts and over pants and hunt for exposed skin.

 

Finally, they both reached a point where they could take no more teasing.  Stella backed off of Hank to kick her pants away and she pulled on one of his hands to sit him up at the foot of the bed.  She straddled his lap and rested her arms on his shoulders as he lifted her from the back of her thighs and then let her sink down onto him.  He always wanted to breathe her name in a sigh in that moment.  It wasn’t just that it felt good to him, but that he felt complete when he was inside her; like everything was okay and right, the way he used to feel with Karen, but even moreso with Stella.

 

_ This is my wife _ .  He tested it in his head as he wrapped his arms around her waist; as she looked down at him with her hair in her eyes; as he licked the sweat from her throat; as she groaned and asked him to fuck her harder.   _ My wife, Stella.  Stella, my wife _ .   _ I’m her husband _ .

 

He did something she hated that night - he watched her sleep.  She lay on her stomach, head turned to the outside of the bed, one knee drawn up so that her hips were slightly twisted towards him.  Gently, he moved the sheet down to expose her back.  He walked his fingers up her spine and then rested his hand between her shoulder blades, feeling her breathe.  She stayed asleep.

 

He woke to find that she’d poached his t-shirt and was sitting in one of the oversized chairs by the window, reading the newspaper.  He scrubbed his hand over his face and stumbled out of bed.  His jockey shorts were in the middle of the floor and he pulled them on before he took a seat opposite her and yawned.

 

“Good morning, Professor,” Hank said.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Moody,” she answered, tilting one corner of her newspaper down slightly to look at him.

 

“I forgot to ask last night what your plans were.  You have to go back home right away?”

 

“No, I’m leaving from New York with you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hank grinned and half-stood to slap the newspaper out of her hands.  She put a hand on his chin as he bent down and kissed her.  He wormed his way into her chair and she wiggled her hips to make room, but he took her legs and draped them over his thighs.  He could tell, with a sweep of his hand up to her hip, that she was naked beneath his shirt.

 

“Why’d you come?” Hank asked.

 

“I wanted to,” Stella answered.

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I missed you.”

 

“I know.”

 

Hank picked Stella’s left hand and traced the underside of each finger with his own, stopping at her ring finger.  He didn’t want what he’d said last night to be one of those things they let go and never talked about again.  He hadn’t really intended to go there, but it was how he felt.  When he’d wanted to marry Karen, a million years ago, it was because he didn’t want to lose her.  When he thought about marrying Stella, it was because he wanted to belong to her.  He really didn’t need to have it, officially, but he wanted to have it symbolically, all the same.

 

“Stella, what I said last night,” he started.  “I meant it.”

 

“I’ve no doubt that you do.”

 

“What do you think about it?”

 

“If I’m to wear a ring, I’d like to choose it myself.”

 

Hank’s chest swelled a little in the prideful way it had the night before.  He nodded.  “That sounds reasonable.  I have pretty shitty taste anyway.”

 

“I don’t think you do, but I am very particular.”

 

“That’s an understatement.”

 

Stella ran her hand back through Hank’s hair and then gave it a soft tug.  He grinned at her and then dropped his head to press his face to her neck.  He could still smell the faint traces of her perfume and sweat.  She put her cheek to his temple and he could hear her voice last night in his ear.   _ My husband and I have been doing some traveling… _

 

Everything really did sound sexier in an English accent.

 

The End

  
  
  
  



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